Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase
: Part 4 – Chapter 24

He was still dressed in the same white shirt and grey suit trousers he’d worn at the beginning of the night, but everything else about the old man had changed. His jacket had gone, replaced by a tunic of shiny steel mesh that hugged his chest and hung loose below his belly in a shimmering cascade. His upper arms were shirt-sleeved, but metal gauntlets protected his wrists and hands. As before, he supported himself on his bulldog-handled walking stick – only now the wooden membrane had been removed, revealing a long, slim rapier within. Strangest and most grotesque of all was the helmet that he wore: a smooth steel skullcap with a projecting rim around the back of the neck, and bulging leather goggles strapped below the brow-plate. The lenses shone glassily; his eyes could not be seen. All in all, Mr Fairfax had the look of a demonic frog: both horrible and ridiculous at the same time.

He raised the lantern and stood in its swirling smoke-filled light, considering us. Then he smiled, showing his silver-coated teeth.

‘Oh, you’re a cool customer, Mr Lockwood,’ Fairfax said. ‘I’ll grant you that. I’m more and more impressed with you. It’s a shame we didn’t meet in other circumstances. You could have had a permanent job with me.’

I don’t know how Lockwood did it, but despite the revolver pointed at his chest, despite the torn coat, the bloodstains, the spots of plasm, magnesium, salt and ash on his clothes, despite the trailing cobwebs in his hair and the scratches on his face and hands, he still made a decent stab at looking unperturbed.

‘You’re very kind,’ he said. ‘But – aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?’ He glanced at the figure with the gun. ‘I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure.’

If not quite as tall as Fairfax, this man was very heavily muscled and broad across the shoulder. His face – what I could see of it – was young and clean-shaven. He too wore a frog-like helmet and a set of body armour, and carried a rapier at his belt.

Fairfax chuckled drily. ‘Percy Grebe, my chauffeur and personal assistant. Used to be an agent with the Hambleton Agency, before it was swallowed up by Fittes. A very capable fellow, and still an excellent swordsman. In fact, you’re already acquainted. Percy paid you a little visit the other night.’

‘Oh yes,’ Lockwood said. ‘Our masked intruder. I stabbed you, didn’t I? How’s your stomach doing?’

‘Bearing up,’ Grebe said.

‘Just another little injury to add to the long list you’ve caused us, Mr Lockwood,’ Fairfax said. ‘Look at this wall!’ He gestured at the pile of stones and the ragged hole through which magnesium smoke still gently drifted. ‘Really, I’m shocked. I did request that no incendiaries be brought into my house.’

‘Sorry about that,’ Lockwood said. ‘On the bright side, we’ve located and destroyed your Source, so we’ll be looking forward to our second payment as soon as the banks open later this morning.’

Another chuckle. ‘Insane optimism is another quality I admire, Mr Lockwood, but I must say it’s your ability to survive that most astounds me. I truly thought the Horror in the Red Room would have killed you hours ago. I watched you go inside, I locked the door . . . Yet now I replace you re-emerging like a dusty woodworm from a completely different part of the house! Quite extraordinary. Clearly you found a way out of the room, which is impressive enough, but to discover the ultimate Source . . . Tell me, was it the Red Duke? That was my favourite theory.’

‘No. It was the staircase and the monks. We found their well.’

‘Really? A well? Through there?’ The opaque goggles flashed in the lantern-light; the voice grew thoughtful. ‘How interesting . . . You’ll have to show me presently.’

At my side, George stirred uneasily. ‘Yes . . . Not necessarily a great idea to mention the well there, Lockwood.’

Lockwood grinned. ‘Oh, Mr Fairfax is a reasonable man. Besides, he wants to talk to us first – don’t you, Fairfax?’

Silence from beneath the helmet. At Fairfax’s side the other figure did not stir; the revolver hung suspended in the dark, directed at our stomachs.

‘Yes.’ The voice was suddenly harsh, decisive. ‘And we can do it in more comfortable surroundings. I’m tired and I need to sit down. Grebe, take our friends up to the library. If either of the boys tries anything, feel free to shoot the girl.’

Lockwood said something, but I didn’t hear what. Beneath my shock and terror, anger stirred. This was Fairfax’s immediate assumption: that I was least danger, the weak link of the team. That I could be used to bind the others to good behaviour, and was scarcely a threat myself. I set my face into a neutral mask, and stared straight ahead as we filed past the old man and away towards the stairs.

In the library the electric lamps were turned up high. After so many hours in blackness the effect was viciously bright; we stumbled to the nearest chairs with our arms across our faces. Grebe motioned us to sit; he took up position beside the bookshelves, arms loosely folded, gun held pillowed on a bulging bicep. We waited.

Finally there came a slow, painful tapping of a stick across the lobby, and Fairfax entered. Light gleamed on the metal skullcap; it shone too on the great hook-nose, giving him more than ever the appearance of a stooped and hulking bird of prey. Hesitantly, he advanced to a leather chair below the wall of photographs and, with an extended sigh of relief, sank down into its depths. As he sat, the edges of his metal corset spread out about him with a gentle clinking sound.

‘At last,’ he said. ‘We were hanging around that cursed cellar for hours after we heard the explosion. All right, Grebe; you can take it off. We’re safe from ghosts in here.’

He bent his neck and removed the helmet, before pulling off the goggles. They’d left a red weal across his brow. The jet-black eyes were screwed up with discomfort; the face was etched with age.

Up on the wall the photo of his youthful self stared out in all its swash and swagger: Fairfax the actor, smooth and handsome, all codpiece, earrings and too-tight leggings, moodily contemplating a plaster skull. Below the picture, the real thing slumped bent and careworn, wearily coughing in his chair. It was strange to see how completely the years had changed him, how they’d steadily devoured his strength and drained that vitality away.

Grebe took off his helmet too. He turned out to have a remarkably thin head, much too small for his body’s muscled bulk. It looked like an upturned skittle. He wore his hair in a cropped military cut, and his mouth was thin and cruel.

Fairfax set his goggles and the helmet down on the nearest side-table, on top of the books Lockwood had studied several hours before. He glanced around the room with an air of satisfaction. ‘I like this library,’ he said. ‘It’s my frontier. At night it forms the borderland between the worlds of the living and the dead. I come here often to test the latest equipment my factories are producing. All the iron keeps me fairly safe, but I have my armour too, which allows me to walk deep into the house unscathed.’

George stirred. ‘That armour: it looks like you’re wearing a dress.’

Fairfax’s eyes narrowed. ‘Insults at a time like this, Mr Cubbins? Is that wise?’

‘Well, when you’re being held at gunpoint by a geriatric madman in a metal skirt, you’ve kind of hit rock-bottom anyway,’ George said. ‘It can’t really get much worse.’

The old man laughed unpleasantly. ‘That remains to be seen. But you’re wrong to be so dismissive. This “dress” is made from an advanced type of steel – mostly iron, which gives it its warding power, but with an aluminium alloy that makes it much lighter than usual. Ease of movement and full protection! The helmet is state-of-the-art too. Did you know that the most vulnerable part of every agent is the neck, Mr Lockwood? This rim removes the danger . . . Don’t you wish you had one?’

Lockwood shrugged. ‘It’s certainly . . . unique.’

‘Wrong again! It’s sophisticated, unusual, but not unique. Fairfax Iron isn’t the only company to be working on remarkable innovations. These goggles, now—’ He collected himself. ‘But perhaps we’re getting off the point.’

Fairfax sat back in his chair and regarded Lockwood for a few moments without speaking. He seemed to be weighing his words. ‘Down in the cellar,’ he began slowly, ‘I overheard you discussing a certain locket, and certain proofs attached to it. In a spirit of casual interest, I’d be keen to know what you mean by “proofs”, if indeed you mean anything. And after that’ – he smiled thinly – ‘perhaps you can tell me where the locket is, and how exactly it may be found.’

‘We’re hardly likely to help you there,’ George said. ‘You’ll only chuck us down the well.’ His pale and bloodied face was set in an expression of fierce defiance. Mine (I guessed) was similar, though also laced with deep repulsion. I could hardly bring myself to look at Fairfax at all.

But Lockwood might have been chatting with a neighbour about the weather. ‘It’s all right, George,’ he said. ‘I can give the man his proofs. It’s important we show him just how hopeless his position is.’ He crossed his legs and sat back with every appearance of contentment. ‘Well, Fairfax, as you guessed, we found the locket on Annabel Ward’s body. We immediately knew that it had been given to her by her killer.’

Fairfax held up a hand. ‘Wait! You knew this? How?’

‘Thanks to a psychic insight by Lucy here,’ Lockwood said. ‘In touching it, she detected strong emotional traces that linked Annie Ward’s unknown admirer with the moment of her death.’

The great head turned; the black eyes considered me for some seconds. ‘Ah yes, the sensitive Miss Carlyle . . .’ Something in the way he said it made my skin recoil. ‘But, legally speaking,’ Fairfax said, ‘that’s hogwash. There’s no proof in it at all.’

‘Quite so,’ Lockwood said. ‘Which was why I wanted to understand the inscription we found on the locket. On the outside, this was Tormentum meum, laetitia mea: “My torment, my bliss”, or similar gibberish. This told us little, other than that the guy who’d had the necklace made was a pretentious, self-regarding sort of fellow. But then, so many murderers are, aren’t they, Fairfax? We needed something more.’

Silence in the library. The old man sat motionless, gnarled hands resting on the studded arms of his leather chair. His head jutted forward in an attitude of strict attention.

‘Next,’ Lockwood said, ‘we came to what we found inside. This, if I recall correctly, was: A ‡ W; H.II.2.115. Three letters, A, W and H, plus the mysterious set of numerals. To begin with, the letters foxed us; in fact, they led us into a serious error. Our instant assumption was that AW stood for Annabel Ward, and that the H might therefore stand for her admirer’s name. The newspapers of the time had highlighted her relationship with Hugo Blake, so this seemed a strong possibility. He’d been the last to see her alive, and had been the only original suspect in the case. The police today also remembered Blake and soon arrested him.

‘In fact,’ Lockwood continued, ‘Blake was a complete red herring, which I might have realized after a careful study of the inscription. Wasn’t it a bit odd that Annie Ward’s initials were spelled out in full, while her admirer’s were confined to a single letter? And what about the numbers: II.2.115? Was it some kind of code? A date? I’m sorry to say that I was stumped.’

He glanced at his watch for a moment, then grinned across at me. ‘Lucy made all the difference, Fairfax. She found a photo showing you in the same group as Annie Ward. At once I knew you’d lied about your purpose in bringing us here. On the train down I read about your early years in the theatre and remembered that Annie Ward had acted too. I guessed that might have been your connection. I also noticed that you acted under your middle name: Will Fairfax. At once that gave a new solution to A ‡ W. Not Annie Ward, but Annie and Will.’

Still the old man hadn’t moved. Or perhaps his head had dropped a little. His eyes were in deep shadow now and could not be seen.

‘I didn’t figure out the meaning of the final bit until this evening,’ Lockwood said. ‘We were on the Screaming Staircase at the time, and have been a little busy ever since, so I haven’t had a chance to check yet. But I think we’ll replace that “H.II.2.115” is a reference to one of the plays you acted in with Annie Ward. I bet it’s some soppy quote that somehow binds the two of you together and which, if we investigated, would prove you knew each other very well indeed.’ He glanced up at the painting on the wall. ‘If I had to guess, I’d say Hamlet, since that seems to be your personal favourite, but who can say except you?’ He smiled and folded his hands across his knee. ‘So, Fairfax – how about it? Perhaps now’s the moment to fill us in.’

Fairfax didn’t stir. Had he actually fallen asleep? It was almost possible, given how long Lockwood had been talking. Up by the bookcase, the man with the gun shifted; clearly he at least had grown impatient. ‘Almost four-thirty, sir,’ he said.

A cracked voice from the chair, from the shaded face. ‘Yes, yes. Just one question, Mr Lockwood. You had the inscription. Why didn’t you instantly show it to the police?’

For a few seconds Lockwood didn’t answer. ‘Pride, I suppose. I wanted to decode it myself. I wanted Lockwood and Co. to have the glory. It was a mistake.’

‘I understand.’ Fairfax lifted his head, and if he had looked old before, now he looked positively deathlike, his eyes bright and ghastly, his grey skin clinging to the bones. ‘Pride does terrible things to a man. In your case, it will be the death of you and your colleagues. In my case, it’s led me to a lifetime of regret.’ He sighed. ‘Well, your proofs are good, and your intuition better. That last reference is indeed to Hamlet, in which Annie and I acted long ago. It’s how we met. I was Prince Hamlet, and she played Ophelia, his betrothed. The locket refers specifically to Act II, Scene 2, lines 115 to 118, which run:

‘Doubt thou the stars are fire,

Doubt that the sun doth move,

Doubt truth to be a liar,

But never doubt I love.’

The old man paused; he stared into the dark. ‘That’s Hamlet to Ophelia,’ he said at last. ‘He’s saying that his love for her is utterly certain, more certain than anything else in the universe. Of course, in the play she drowns herself, and he’s poisoned, but the principle holds true. It’s all about the passion between them . . . And passion is what Annie and I shared.’

‘Didn’t stop you killing her,’ I said. It was the first time I’d spoken.

Fairfax glanced towards me, black eyes dull like stones. ‘You’re still a child, Miss Carlyle. You know nothing of such things.’

‘Wrong.’ I let my full scorn show. ‘I know exactly what Annie Ward experienced. When I touched the locket, I felt it all.’

‘How nice for you,’ Fairfax said. ‘You know, I’ve always thought that your kind of Talent must be far more trouble than it’s worth. Feeling another person’s death pain? I can’t say that’s ever appealed to me.’

‘It’s not just her death that I understand,’ I said quietly. ‘I felt all the emotions that she experienced while she wore the necklace. I know everything she went through with you.’ And the memories had hardly faded, either. I could still taste the girl’s hysteria, her wild jealousies, her grief and anger; and, finally, right at the end—

‘What a ridiculous skill you have,’ Fairfax said. ‘How terribly pointless and distracting. Still, you’ll know then what a dark and difficult person Annie Ward was. She had a volatile personality and a poisonous temper, but she was beautiful all the same. We both acted in a number of amateur productions, and this gave us the excuse to be together, for our relationship had to remain secret. Annie was not of the correct social standing, you see – her father was a tailor, or something of that kind – and my parents would have cut off my inheritance if they’d known about her. Well, finally Annie demanded we go public. I refused, of course – the idea was impossible – so she left me.’ His lips drew back, teeth glinted. ‘For a time she went around with Hugo Blake: a fop, a worthless dandy. He was no good, and she knew it. Before long she was back with me.’

He shook his head; his voice grew louder. ‘I’m sorry to say that Annie was wayward. She socialized with people of whom I did not approve, including Blake, though I had forbidden her to see him. We often argued; our arguments grew worse. One night I came to her house in secret and let myself in. She was not there. I waited for her. Imagine my rage when I saw her being dropped outside the door by none other than the vile Hugo Blake himself. As soon as she entered, I confronted her. We had a fearsome row, at the end of which I lost control. I struck her. She fell lifeless to the floor. I had broken her neck with a single blow.’

I shuddered. Right at the end: the final pain and terror. Yes, I’d felt that too.

‘Put yourself in my shoes, Mr Lockwood,’ Fairfax went on. ‘Here was I, the heir to one of the largest industrial fortunes in England, kneeling by the body of the girl I’d killed. What could I do? If I called the police, I faced ruin – imprisonment, certainly, and perhaps the rope. Two lives would have been destroyed because of a moment’s madness! If, on the other hand, I left her lying there, there was still no guarantee I would escape. Perhaps someone had seen me enter the house? I couldn’t be sure. So I resolved upon a third solution. I would hide the body and conceal the crime. It took me almost twenty-four hours, Mr Lockwood, to create my dear Annie’s impromptu tomb, twenty-four hours that have stayed with me for fifty years. I had to locate a hiding place, knock through the wall, bring materials into the house to conceal that hole – and do all this unseen. Every moment I feared discovery, every moment I had to labour with the body there beside me . . .’ The old man closed his eyes; he took a ragged breath. ‘Well, I got it done, and I have lived with the memory ever since. But in all my efforts – and this is the bitter irony – I forgot the locket! I didn’t think of it; it slipped my mind. It was only weeks later that I recalled its existence, and realized it might one day . . . prove troublesome. And so it has. As soon as I read your newspaper article, I guessed you’d found it, and were working on a solution. Subtle enquiries revealed the police knew nothing. That gave me hope; I turned my attention to you. First I tried to steal it. When Grebe failed, I was forced to use more radical measures to ensure your silence.’ He sighed; air whistled between the silver teeth. ‘Now the ghosts of Combe Carey have let me down too, and I’m going to have to finish the job myself. However, before I do – one simple question remains. What have you done with my locket?’

No one spoke. When I listened with my inner ear, the house was empty. The Visitors had gone. We were left with only mortal enemies – a killer, his henchman, and a gun.

‘I’m waiting,’ Fairfax said. He was completely calm. The prospect of murdering us didn’t appear to distress him in the slightest.

Lockwood, however, seemed just as relaxed, if not more so. ‘Thanks for the story,’ he said. ‘It was most enlightening – and very useful, as it’s helped us waste a bit more time. You see, I forgot to mention earlier that we’re not going to be alone for long. Shortly before we arrived I sent word via our driver to Inspector Barnes of DEPRAC. I gave him enough information about you to excite his interest and asked him to meet us here by dawn.’

George and I stared at him. I remembered the package, the taxi driver, the money changing hands . . .

‘He should arrive quite soon,’ Lockwood went on blithely. He leaned back in the chair and stretched his arms behind his head. ‘In other words, it’s all over for you, Fairfax. So we might as well relax. Why not get Grebe to make us all a cup of tea?’

The old man’s face was ghastly to observe: hatred, fear and disbelief washed over it in waves, and for a moment he was struck dumb. Then the expression cleared. ‘You’re bluffing,’ he said. ‘And even if you’re not, who cares? By the time anyone arrives, you’ll have sadly met your end while fighting Visitors by the haunted well. One after the other, you all fell in. I’ll be terribly distraught. Barnes will be able to prove nothing. So. One final time of asking: Where is the locket?’

No one said anything.

‘Percy,’ Fairfax said. ‘Shoot the girl.’

‘Wait!’ Lockwood and George leaped from their chairs.

‘OK!’ I cried. ‘OK, don’t do it! I’ll tell you.’

All eyes turned as I stood up. Fairfax leaned forward. ‘Excellent. I thought you’d be the one to crack. So . . . where did you hide it, girl? Which room?’

‘Lucy—’ Lockwood began.

‘Oh, it’s not at Portland Row at all,’ I said. ‘I’ve got it here.’

I was watching the old man’s face as I spoke; I saw how his eyes drew tight in pleasure, how his mouth curled sensuously into a secretive half-smile. And something about the expression, fleeting as it was, opened a cracked and dirty window for me onto his truest, deepest nature. It was something he generally kept hidden beneath the bluff, bombastic veneer of the captain of industry; it even underlay the dry regret of his long confession. I’d seen a lot that night at Combe Carey Hall, but that little gleeful smile on those old, wide lips? Yeah, it was the self-love of the murderer, and easily the most repulsive thing of all. I wondered how many others had fallen foul of him over the years, and how he had disposed of them.

‘Show me, then,’ he said.

‘Sure.’ Out of the corner of my eye I could see Lockwood staring at me, trying desperately to catch my attention. I didn’t meet his gaze. There was no point. I’d made my choice. I knew what I was going to do.

I reached round the back of my neck and removed the loop of cord. As I pulled out the case, I thought I saw a flash of pale fire from beneath the glass, but the electric lights were bright in the library and I might have been mistaken. I held the case in one hand and shot aside the little bolt.

‘Hey, that’s silver-glass . . .’ Grebe said suddenly. ‘What’s the locket doing in there?’

I swung the lid open and tipped the necklace out into my palm. As I did so, I heard a little gasp from George. Fairfax spoke too, but I didn’t heed him. I was listening to another sound – far off, but swiftly drawing near.

The locket was blisteringly cold; so cold it burned my skin. ‘Here you are,’ I said. ‘All yours.’

With that I held my arm outstretched, and turned my head aside.

Up on the wall, the photo of young Fairfax, legs valiantly akimbo, thoughtfully considered the mouldering skull. Here in the library, the old, decrepit Fairfax stared in sudden consternation at the necklace in my hand.

Air struck the side of my face. My hair stretched out behind me; chair-legs scraped on carpets, tables shifted. I heard a great collective thump as all the books in the room slammed against the back wall of the shelves. Percy Grebe, who had been doing something with his gun, was blown back off his feet; he hit a bookshelf hard and collapsed onto the floor. Lockwood’s chair spun into George’s. Both were pressed back in their seats by the wave of force erupting from my hand.

All the light bulbs in the library blew.

But it wasn’t dark; to me the room grew brighter, because the girl was there. She wore her pretty summer dress with orange flowers. She stood between me and Fairfax, and now the other-light radiated from her like water: it poured in torrents, gushing over chairs and rugs, and spilling around the reading desks in a bright and freezing tide.

‘I’m cold,’ a voice said. ‘So very cold.’

Into my head came the little hollow knocking sound I’d heard at Sheen Road the night it all began, like a fingernail on plaster or a nail being hammered into wood. It was rhythmic now, like the beating of a heart. Otherwise it was all dead quiet. For an instant the ghost-girl’s eyes met mine; then she turned to face the old man in the chair.

Fairfax sensed but could not see her clearly. He was looking wildly all around. Suddenly his fingers scrabbled on the table. He found the goggles, pressed them to his eyes. He looked, he frowned: at once his face went slack, his body very still.

The ghost-girl drifted towards him, light streaming from her hair.

The goggles drooped in Fairfax’s hand, hung at an acute diagonal across his nose. They fell away. His eyes were rapt with wonder and an awful fear. As a gentleman does when a lady enters the room, he got slowly, shakily to his feet. He stood there, waiting.

The girl opened her arms out wide.

Perhaps Fairfax tried to move. Perhaps he tried to defend himself. But ghost-lock had him in its grip. His sword-arm twitched slightly, his hand hung helpless above his belt.

Off to the side, Lockwood fought free of the baleful influence; he tugged at George’s arm, pulled him back behind the chairs and safely out of range.

Coils of other-light, like giant fingers, closed in on Fairfax from all sides. And now the girl had reached him. Plasm touched the iron armour; it hissed and bubbled. The girl’s form wavered, but held firm. She looked into the old man’s eyes. He opened his mouth; he seemed about to speak . . . She clasped him to her, drew him downwards in a cold embrace.

Fairfax gave a single hollow cry.

And the other-light went out.

The room was dark. I tilted my hand; the locket fell and broke into pieces on the floor.

‘Quickly! George – get Grebe!’ That was Lockwood shouting. The chauffeur’s form could just be seen, blundering away across the room, knocking against furniture, making for the lobby. Lockwood grabbed a poker from the fireplace, and followed. George leaped in pursuit too, skimming a cushion past Grebe’s head. Grebe ducked; his silhouette was outlined hazily against the lobby arch. He turned: a flash, a crack, a bullet whipped between us into the dark.

Lockwood and George reached the arch, paused a moment, and passed through. Then at once there came a shouting and a crashing, and the sounds of voices raised, and despite the pain in my injured hand, I too was stumbling to the lobby – where to my astonishment I found the chauffeur sprawling on the ground with Lockwood’s poker at his throat, the main entrance doors wide open, and Inspector Barnes and a crowd of grim-faced agents clustering into the Hall.